As You Are, So Am I
by Meridian1
Summary: Ch.3 When all is said and done, what will remain to tell their story?
1. Family

**Title: As You Are, So Am I**  
**Author:** Meridian  
**Rating:** PG (discussions of death and its repercussions, a curse word or two at most)  
**Summary:** What Michael was best at, Nicole sorely needs.  
**Author's Notes:** It's funny how, without noticing, we fall into shipping for certain people in _Dawn of the Dead_-there's the obvious Michael/Ana ship and the Terry/Nicole ship. Then there's the group dynamic. But, as I think Allison Lane proved with her second chapter of "Scenes From A Mall" (a _must_ _read_ for this fandom), there are some awesome stories to be told about two characters who aren't flirting, dating, or sleeping together. This is just my attempt to explore one of them, one that I can see being founded between to survivors of a very personal loss. Also, it's just funny how some things in the movie work out, as I hope you'll see!

***

"Um."

Michael banged his head on the steering wheel case as he backed out to see who had spoken to him. She tried not to smile at his surprise. He had been expecting Ana, surely. Ana _always_ went and got Michael and the others to come up for lunch. Today was different. Today, Michael was working alone, rewiring and testing the plow controls for Bus #1. Everyone else was taking the time off to rest or play; there wasn't any point reinforcing the buses if the plow wasn't there to clear a path for them, so everyone was waiting for the okay from Michael. This was her best chance to talk to him without anyone else around.

"Nicole? Hey, what's going on?" Michael rubbed the back of his head, absently, scanning her face for any sign of trouble.

"Nothing, nothing," she held up her hands, waving them to assure him all was well.

Michael looked at his watch. "It's a bit early for lunch, isn't it?"

"It's not ready yet." She knotted her fingers together; a visibly nervous tic. Michael was staring at her, confused and a tad wary. He'd kept his distance, for the most part, since her Dad...for a while, anyway, and she hadn't approached him. Consequently, he seemed to think she hated him for what he'd said and what had had to be done. She didn't, but he thought she did, which made this tougher. "I just, uh, wanted to..." she shrugged, looking away.

"What's on your mind?" Michael slid into the driver's seat, leaning his elbow against the steering wheel. He nodded at the empty space up front, and she sat down across from him. When she glanced up from her tangled fingers in her lap, he still wore an apprehensive expression. "This about your dad?"

Her jaw dropped. Immediately, a defensive, overly emphatic, "No!" escaped before she clapped her hand over her mouth. Michael's eyebrows jumped; he said nothing, just waited for her to calm down. Nicole felt her face settle into an ugly look. People weren't _supposed_ to say what they were really thinking all the time. It wasn't polite. "You're kind of rude."

"I've heard that before," Michael sighed, half-smiling and rubbing his forehead. "I'm sorry, honey, I just don't do well with politically correct subterfuge."

She blinked at him as this sank in. He didn't seem to notice that he called her 'honey.' It hurt, just a little, but he didn't mean it to. It felt natural, sounded as though it slipped from some forgotten memory. _That_ was what she wanted to talk about, but first things first. She cleared her throat. "It's called 'sensitivity.'"

"Not my strong suit either." He took a deep breath, held it for a pregnant moment and let it out in rush. "So, what's up?"

"We didn't get to talk much during dinner the other night." They both knew which dinner she meant. Every dinner since the generators had gone out, since four people-five, including the baby-had died, every dinner since that '_dinner the other night_' had been just another meal. It was like saying '_that morning_;' everyone knew which morning you meant.

"What did you want to talk about?" His tone was guarded, more cautious as the conversation had unexpectedly moved from her personal territory to his.

"I just wanted to know..." she swallowed, hard, pushing herself to ask. _You've come this far, just ask!_ "Iwantedtoknowaboutyourfamily," she said, a one-word sentence. Michael opened his mouth, making an 'oh' shape, then closed it, firmly pressing his lips together. "Please?" She added, almost an afterthought.

"What," Michael began, interrupting himself by fighting to take a deep, even breath, "what do you want to know?"

"You had kids?" She tried to make it sound benign, like she were inquiring about something as mundane as whether or not he'd had a lawnmower. It failed, she could tell, mostly because there was no way to ask that kind of question without the ghost of loss haunting them in the silence.

"Y-yeah," he murmured. It was the only time she could remember him stuttering. He usually spoke so clearly, resolutely, and with purpose. His sparseness of phrase was what she had meant when she called him insensitive; there wasn't much room for the superfluous in his speech. "Yeah," he said, slowly, stammering again, as if he couldn't remember if that was the right answer, "I did."

"How many?"

"Two."

"Boys or girls?"

"One of each, actually." A fleeting tremor, what could have been intended as a smile, passed over his lips. Anticipating her next question, he continued, "My daughter's older. She's ten, and my son is eight."

Noticing his use of the present tense-_my daughter _is_ ten, my son _is_ eight_-she tactfully adjusted her own language. "What are their names?"

"My daughter's name is Genevieve, but we call her Genny. My son's Gabriel. Gabe, for short."

"That's...pretty," Nicole fumbled, awkwardly.

"We tried to think of names that were unique but could be shortened for nick-names. Made it easier on us." This time, Michael smiled freely, eyes on her but unfocused, lost in memory of better days.

"We? Your wife?"

"First wife, yeah."

"How long were you married?"

"Listen, Nicole," Michael shook himself, "I don't want to interrupt, but-"

"Then don't," she cut him off, surprising them both. "Please, I want to know." She drew her knees up and locked her arms around them. Tears struggled to escape her suddenly moist eyes. "No one will talk with me about their families." Well, not no one, but she no one she felt comfortable talking to. Not Steve or Monica, certainly. Not Kenneth-he was too intimidating. C.J. and Tucker weren't that approachable-they both called her 'kid,' a lot. Ana and Terry, she could talk to, but neither one was forthcoming on that subject.

Then they'd had that dinner. Maybe it was to earn their pity, maybe he was wallowing; nonetheless, Michael had revealed painful, intimate information about his family, about what his life had been before Crossroads. She'd thought about it constantly since then, just waiting for this opportunity to..to what? To feel better by sharing, digging up the past again? Mom would have done it. Mom always bugged her to tell her what was wrong because a burden shared was a burden halved. How to communicate that to him? She wasn't sure she could, wasn't even sure she knew what this would do for either of them.

"Tell me about your dad, Nicole."

Squeezing her eyes together to keep from crying, she pictured him and found herself starting to voice what she saw somewhere along the way. "Dad took me to Chicago to look at Northwestern last summer because I didn't want to go to Wisconsin with Doug and Paul."

"Are those your brothers?"

"Yeah," she sniffled, opening her eyes. Michael was listening, his posture intent. _Really_ _listening_. "I wanted to go to a big city school, but he wouldn't let me go to the University of Chicago because it was in a bad neighborhood." Michael nodded, gesturing for her to continue. "We took the car, it was so nice to be on a car trip together. We're the most alike, you know?"

Michael laughed. "You are most like the parent of the opposite sex. Genny and I are peas in a pod. Gabe and his mother...well, let's just say you can tell they're related."

"Yeah, my Mom always had the toughest time with my brothers 'cause they were so alike. They tried to pull all this stuff on her, but she always knew what they were up to. I got away with more with her, but not with my Dad." Nicole giggled and didn't wipe her eyes when tears fell; happy tears didn't sting. "Once, I was over at my boyfriend's house, and I told my Mom I was at my friend Justine's working on a school paper. That way, I could stay out past curfew." She paused, seeing Michael screw his face up, a look of uncertainty; he hadn't gotten up to curfew problems with his kids. "You know, 'cause it's school work, which doesn't count as fun?" He smiled-_that_, he understood. No kid, young or old, _likes_ homework. "Well, my Dad showed up at Scott's-that was my boyfriend-house right at eleven! He knew the whole time! He said on the way home that he'd done the same thing when he was my age."

"Sounds like your Dad's no pushover, Nicole." His complement was genuine. "Me, I dunno. My wife always said Genny was Daddy's girl. She would have had me wrapped around her little finger by your age."

Nicole stifled a giggle. That was hard to imagine. Michael, who didn't blink at Steve's vulgarity, Kenneth's profanity, or Monica's sensuality, him, slave to a ten-year-old girl? After a second thought, yeah, she _could_ see it. In the way he indulged people, let them talk, let them go just far enough with some childishness before bringing them back, making them understand that now they had to behave, act like grownups-_please_? He never demanded, just sort of wished they would. As a lot of the 'adults' in their group were little better than children at times, it was little wonder they all listened to him.

"I bet you were a great dad." His answering smile made her heart ache, and, too late, she realized that she'd said _were_.

"I thought so," Michael shook his head, but the sadness did not leave his eyes. "I did my best."

"Did your kids stay with you after you divorced?"

"Yes, they did, for a while."

"Really?" That was impressive. So few fathers won custody in divorces, an old prejudice in family court.

"Yes, really," Michael chuckled. "They lived with me and their mother saw them some weekday afternoons and weekends. We split holidays and school vacations."

"What happened?" There was a _but_ in his story. He'd said _for a while_. Well, sure, he'd been happy living with his kids..._for a while_. It was like saying she'd been happy with her Dad, finally safe after five hours inside a truck..._for a while_.

"I lost my job, had to move out of the house. By then, their mother had remarried, so it just made more sense for them to move in with her and her husband and not have to cram themselves into my apartment." Michael shrugged. "I hated it, but these things happen."

"But you still saw them a lot, right?" Of course, he would have. Being a parent was his favorite job, some part of her mind reminded her, he'd do anything to be a good dad. _Right?_

"We switched schedules, their mother and I, but we spent the same amount of time together."

"Do you know...did you try to find them?" Like 'dinner,' like 'dawn,' this question needed no elaboration-all the questions that went with it were understood. _What happened? Why aren't you here with your kids? Is it for the same reason my Dad isn't here_?

"No, honey, I didn't. I couldn't. The roads were a mess, and it was too dangerous. I wouldn't have made it, and I'm no good to them dead. I just had to hope they'd be okay. There was nothing I could have done to get to where they were." Michael stared at his hands, wringing them, like she did sometimes.

"They might have made it out of town." She struggled to think of something less lamely impotent than that reassurance. How hollow a hope it seemed to offer him, how pathetically meager.

He raised his head to look at her. "They're dead, Nicole. I love them, and I want to believe what you believe, but I _know_," he never faltered, holding her gaze, "I know they're gone, sweetie."

Finally, this brought forth the salty, crusty, hurtful tears. This finality in his voice, the certainty that was so familiar when he talked about anything else. It was denial, refusing to share, to indulge. This was the _grow up, Nicole_ moment. Why had she ever imagined he would be more open about this? Where had she gotten the idea that he would ever play along with her fantasy? Somehow, this betrayal burned worse than Terry not being able to tell her about his family at all. Because this time she had hoped...had _believed_ it could be different. Tears blinded her, obscuring the world as they filled sore eyelids that had cried so much, too much.

And then someone was rocking her, soothing her, telling her to cry but not to worry. "Cry, honey, but don't worry," someone was saying. "Go ahead and cry." Instinct taught her to hug back, to rock with the gentle swaying and the gentler voice. "Everything will be all right, Nicole. I promise." All the pins and pricks dug into her skin, irritating, scratching at her. She shivered. That was what Dad had said when Mom's car flipped over, when Paul crawled out with his mouth bloody and his eyes crazed, when he'd kissed her forehead and told her not to watch. _Everything will be all right, baby._ She was his baby. Grief-addled, being cradled like his baby, she could process only that this was fatherly, this hug.

"Daddy," she whimpered. The rocking slowed, off-beat, then resumed, a glitch in the rhythm, nothing more. It was enough; she realized her mistake even if Michael did not correct her, did not intrude on the fantasy she created. He would not partake of her kind of denial, but he did not dispel it. Not actively. Pulling away was awkward. It meant looking at Michael again, pretending his arms didn't linger around her, protective, just a fraction too long.

"I was thinking," he said, kindly, wiping at an errant tear in the corner of her eye.

"Yeah?" He didn't say sorry. He didn't apologize, he didn't reprimand her for calling him 'Dad,' even though it must have hurt him to hear it. This was better than anything she could have expected.

"I saw the work you did in the stairwell. Very nice."

"Thank you," she wiped her nose, a trembling smile forming. "I used to...I had a studio at home. I did a lot of mixed media pieces. I also," she lowered her voice, leaning towards him conspiratorially, "doodled in class a lot." They both chuckled at that. The unease was fading, practically forgotten already. _How did he do it?_

"Would you consider decorating the plow for me?" Michael jerked his head to the left, indicating the big mass of steel on the other side of the control panel. She opened her mouth--to speak, to protest, to shout for joy? _Yes! Yes!_ She would, she would! But _no, no!_ Not if it was pity-work, not because she felt bad and he felt worse for her. Sensing her hesitation, he elaborated, off-handedly, "It would get you out of the mall. Away from Monica, away from Steve. It can't be healthy to spend that much time with either of them."

She laughed, freely, until her sides hurt. Monica, Tucker, and she were in charge of stockpiling supplies, though Tucker found excuse enough to help in the garage when he could despite his foot. Nicole couldn't blame him. Since they'd started on the buses, staying out of the garage meant extended periods with Monica and Steve. Neither one was her favorite person-Monica made no effort to hide how childish she considered Nicole, and Steve leered at her, which was just creepy. Plus, he wasn't doing a damn thing. However, hanging around the working crew wasn't the same as helping, and she'd rather help _everyone_ than just be where _she_ felt better.

"What do you say, Nicole?"

"What design would you want?"

Michael backed away, bringing his arms up, palms facing her in surrender. "I wouldn't presume to dictate to the artist. But, if you're asking me for my opinion, I'd say something scary."

"Scary?"

He shrugged, "Well, it would make _me_ feel a lot better. Tougher, you know, like we're more dangerous to that crowd outside."

"How about teeth?" Giggling, she held up clawed fingers, baring her own set of pearly whites. "Like _grrrr_! Chew right through them!" Michael's smile disappeared for a second, his whole face went curiously blank, and then he was millions of miles away. She dropped the goofy gestures, panic flashing red alert. "What? What? Michael?" What had she done? What had she said!? Ready to scream with tension, she blew out a relieved breath when he shook his head, his grin returning more brilliantly than ever she had seen it.

"_Nicole_," he swore, "god-_damn_!" He leapt up, reached down and pulled her to her feet. "You have just given me an idea. A _great_ idea."

"What? What is it?" Still clutching his hand, she followed him out the anterior door. He noticed, squeezed her hand back as they headed back to the mall. His long legs carried him farther than her per stride, so that he reached the top of the stairs and the EMPLOYEES ONLY door to the garage while she was at the bottom.

"Why don't you find some paints at Kay's Hardware? I'm going to have a look around Sears. We need to do what you said." Those three sentences, together, made no sense. They were all non sequiturs that could only be understood in Michael-sense, which she didn't have.

"What did I say?" _We need teeth?_ Was that what she had said? Her brain was whirling. This whole conversation hadn't gone how she planned. Better or worse she couldn't decide, but it was definitely more confusing. Things were moving too fast.

By the time she emerged into the bright neon lights of the main corridor on the first floor, Michael was rounding the corner towards Sears. Terry, Ana, Kenneth, and Tucker were in Hallowed Grounds, their heads turned in the direction Michael had gone. Nicole walked toward them, trying not to draw attention to her puffy and irritated eyes. Steve sat on a bench with a crossword puzzle book in his lap, not looking up, though obviously noticing Michael's sudden appearance and swift departure.

"Guess he fixed the plow," Steve commented, uninterested.

Ana looked at Nicole as she sat down and handed her a water and a napkin. Terry walked around the counter to sit next to her, slipping his arm around her waist. He was offering her comfort, moral support, but she didn't really need it at the moment. Her head was still spinning, too dizzy to be upset, though she dabbed at her eyes with the napkin and blew her nose.

"Where's he off to in such a hurry?" Tucker waved, indicating the direction Michael had gone.

"I have no idea," Nicole answered, truthfully. She leaned her head against Terry's shoulder.

"Everything okay, Nicole?"

She knew the answer to that one at least. "Yes."

Not five minutes later, Michael reappeared with a large white box. Without a word, he retraced his steps, heading back to the door leading to the garage. Everyone watched, hardly breathing, let alone daring to ask. The box had a picture of a large, red-bodied, gas-powered chainsaw on it. He slipped through the door and disappeared from sight.

Steve, having looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of the package under Michael's arm, glanced over at the silent, gawking group at the coffee bar.

"Then again, maybe he didn't."


	2. Sex

**As You Are, So Am I**  
**II. Sex**  
**Rating: **R (language, explicit sexual imagery)  
**Author's Notes: **This chapter is considerably longer than the previous entry, and the mood is much, much more adult. Still, I feel that the two stories are related, they share common elements, themes, particularly as the chapters will all take place around the time the group attempts to flee. Up until the deaths of four people, no one in the mall seemed anxious to leave. It's not easy to change so drastically from the laissez-faire attitude, so I wanted to examine what would be said, would _need_ to be said before they could leave their sanctuary behind and risk relying on each other.

***

The tedium of checklists had somehow fallen among her lot when duties were divided up. Lists. They weren't endless. There was nothing practical about an _endless_ list--you might just as well not make it if it _never_ ended--but these were coming pretty close. Food, clothes, first-aid, those were present and accounted for, the luxuries came next, the hypothetical, last. As the hypothetical included whatever weapons they could procure from Andy's shop, this one required the most attention.

Ana sighed and slumped forward, leaning her chin on her crossed arms, trying to remember what luxuries people had stopped by to add while she tried to sort her lists. Nicole requested a journal, Glenn asked for a Bible, Terry wanted some comic book_--graphic novel_, she corrected herself, Tucker asked for some pornographic magazines (at least he was honest), Kenneth insisted they throw in the volleyball equipment, and Steve demanded they be well-stocked with liquor. C.J. had told her to fuck a luxuries list because it'd only slow them down. Michael had said he'd think about it.

And here came Monica now, undoubtedly having heard that requests were being left with her at Hallowed Grounds. Which would it be? Cigarettes or lingerie?

"Hey."

"Hey, girl," Monica grinned, drawing over an ashtray while lighting the cigarette already dangling from her lips. Noting her moue of disapproval, Monica took a defiant drag but blew the smoke away. "Don't start with me, doc."

"I'm a nurse."

"I've had it up to here with you health professionals." She perched, chin on the palm of her cigarette hand. "Besides, _not_ smoking didn't save anyone out _there_," she jerked her chin towards the doors.

"That's like saying it's okay to have arteriosclerosis so long as you get hit by a bus before you have a heart attack. And," she pointed an accusing finger, "_you_ are still alive, so your argument doesn't apply. But, if it makes you feel better, I won't tell anyone outside to stop smoking if they start."

Her terse language drew a guffaw, muffled around the filter of a cigarette. Monica happily blew a stream of smoke upwards. "Damn. You're a cackle." This, like much of what Monica said, made little sense to her. Monica shook her head and clarified, "A cackle? A hoot, you know?"

"Right, but why a 'cackle'?"

"Because people don't actually hoot."

"Right," Ana nodded, waving off an invisible wisp of smoke she nonetheless could smell. "What do you want me to add?"

"Hm?"

"You want something. What?" Ana gestured towards her lists. Monica snatched the 'Luxuries' list, laughing at a couple entries.

"Figures."

"What?"

Monica shrugged, still chewing her lip in a strangely knowing manner. "I want cigarettes, but if you're going to be bad for my psychological health about it, I'll forgo them." She took another drag. "But you might as well add what people _really_ want to that."

"Hey, they told me, not the other way around."

"Well, they didn't tell you the _truth_." Monica gave her a pitying, 'aren't you cute?' look. Ana bristled, which only made Monica laugh. "What? What did you expect? You're the den mother around here. No one tells it like is." She paused, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling, back and forth, back and forth, reconsidering. "Well, no, I take it back. Tucker told you the truth. Maybe Glenn, too."

"How...never mind," Ana shook her head, leaning forward a bit testily, "If you're so smart, why don't you tell me what I should add, so I don't have to worry about it last minute? Better yet, why don't _you_ make the list and save me the trouble?"

Monica's grin widened. "Okay."

"Here," Ana shoved a blank page at her, and Monica took it and a marker. At the top of the page, reading upside down, Ana saw the name Monica gave the new list: _Desires_. Next, she wrote each of their names down, taking her time with the arrangement. Tucker went first, followed by Steve, then C.J., Terry and Nicole--they were one entry on their own, names written with a connecting bracket at the end. Then Glenn, Kenneth, Andy--_Andy?_ How could she possibly know what Andy wanted from the stores? She didn't add her name, Ana's, or Michael's.

"You missed some."

"Shh," Monica admonished, concentrating on her list. After a few seconds, Monica's head snapped up, and she stared at Ana, eyes roving, critically, over her.

"What?"

"_Shh_," Monica repeated, irritated and sucking on her filter. Monica squinted, narrowed one eyebrow at her, then wrote 'Ana.' Leaning back, she crossed her arms over her breasts, eyes skyward as she worked something out. Finally, she listed Michael's name. "There."

"That's helpful." There were names but no items.

"Watch." With a quick flourish, she stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and took up the marker again. She looked at the first name, Tucker, and jotted down: _porn_.

"That's what he said," Ana reminded her with a roll of the eyes.

"And _I_ said he was being honest," Monica replied casually as she scribbled in the next entry for Steve. Ana read it upside down.

"Mirrors?"

"He needs them to get off."

"Okay, Monica, look, I really didn't need to know that," she didn't have to feign disgust.

"What do you think this list is _for_? Tsk," the blonde curls bounced as Monica tossed her head. "Steve's favorite position is doggy-style."

"Monica--"

"_But_," the other woman interrupted, cutting her off, "he's definitely a tit-man, so he needs the mirrors to see them swinging. He _loves_ the angle from the rear, but he's crazy about breasts, especially aroused ones and how they move when he's thrusting. That's his favorite part. I'd put 'camera' on here, but he doesn't need to re-live sex that badly, so mirrors will do. And I seriously _doubt_ we'll have space for the plasma screens for live playback." She recounted all this very officiously, as if she weren't in any way connected to this past time of Steve's.

"Uh-huh," Ana grunted, not sure whether commenting or staying silent was the key to ceasing all further discussions of Steve's sexual preferences. Monica nodded, and taking her silence as acceptance, wrote her next entry. 

For C.J., she wrote _blow-job_. 

Ana snorted. "I hope you've got someone _else_ in mind to give him one." Not me, she meant.

Monica raised one perfectly tapered eye-brow, and with one more stroke of the pen, Ana had her answer: next to Glenn's name, she wrote _C.J_. "That works out pretty well, actually."

Ana felt her jaw drop. "_What_?"

"Glenn's definitely flexible on that score. He's just repressed because he happens to be a Jesus-freak. You should have heard him in that chapel," Monica rolled her eyes. "Plus, he likes playing the woman some times. Definitely a cross-dresser."

"I guess I missed that," Ana said, dumb-struck. "Where did you get this idea?"

"Simple," Monica flipped her hair behind her back, "I just happen to be psychic when it comes to sex."

Ana, to put it simply, had absolutely no answer for that. Monica might as well have dropped out of every-man's-fantasy land. She strolled around with the confident swagger of a woman who not only _feels_ but _knows_ she's sexy. Her willingness to perform never faded, she never chastised Steve for watching the tapes he made of them around others, and she made open invitations to all, regardless of age, even gender at times. Maybe the confidence act gave her some insight unfamiliar to comparatively reserved individuals, but did she believe that made her _psychic?_

"Sex psychic," Ana mimicked, dryly, "that what you do for a living?"

"Nope," Monica shrugged, "just a gift."

"So, how does your gift work?"

"I know what people's favorite positions are or what's their favorite way to get off. Whether they're aggressive or masochistic, that sort of thing." Like all people alternately blessed and cursed with unique talents, Monica sounded bored discussing it. Ana could not dismiss this so easily. It was ridiculous, and she needed a good laugh.

"So, C.J....?"

"He prefers a blow-job to a woman. He's straight, but he'd take it from a guy if it was good enough and he closed his eyes."

"Over a woman?"

"Yep." Monica lit another cigarette. "Isn't it obvious? He even acts like b-j man."

"How's that?" Ana was going to get lost before she even got to Monica-land.

"Power. He wants it, wants to be able to dismiss people, but he usually can't. He'll feel guilty, so he'll want the blow-job, but he'll make sure the girl has a good time and just hope she'll get around to it the next time. Really, though, he just wants to be sucked and to be done with it."

"And you would know because..." Ana fished for the words to say it politely, "from experience, maybe?"

Monica shook her head. "Nuh-uh. I'll do it, sure, but I want my cookies, too. C.J. needs a woman who loves him enough to make him feel good without him returning the favor all the time. I'm not the girl for that. I want tat for my tits."

"You really think that's what C.J. needs? Someone to blow him and all will be well in his world?"

"It's not about what I think. It's what he likes."

Not about to argue the point, not about Steve, not about C.J., she moved on. "But Glenn?"

"Is a Jesus-freak. He's gay, he wants cock, but he can't have it. So, instead of him getting sucked off, he does the sucking. That way, he's not 'spilling his seed' or whatever. God happy, Glenn happy, get it?"

"What about Tucker?"

"Victoria's Secret catalogue and some lotion, he's a happy man. I bet he doesn't even need the real stuff." Ana pictured Tucker, flannel, jeans, and cap. Yeah, that made more sense. He had a kind of loner side to him; he dressed the part of the backwoods hick, though, so it wasn't really fair to stereotype. "You can see that one, right?"

Ana nodded. "Go on. I'd _love_ to hear your theories on the rest."

"What theories?" The two blondes, wrapped up in their dissection, failed to detect Nicole's approach until the teenager had plopped herself down next to Monica, upwind of her cigarette smoke. Seeing the lists spread out on the counter, Nicole brightened. "Oh, hey, can I add something?" 

She reached for Monica's list before Ana could slap a hand down on it. At first, it didn't look like Nicole's brain could process what she was reading. The first entry was risque though harmless enough, but it was all downhill after Steve. Her cheeks flushed bright red by the time she reached the last entry, her mouth hung open, and her eyes flew accusingly between the two women. Ana couldn't decide between plausible denial or deflection of blame. Monica merely nodded.

"I was getting to you, too, don't worry, kid," Monica reached for the pen. Horrified, Nicole dropped the paper, which Monica snatched, all before Ana could react to any of it. Their resident sex-pot wasted no time at all, writing down one word next to _Terry and Nicole_ without hesitation.

_Condoms_.

"Oh!" Nicole squeaked. Ana couldn't quite place her reaction. One part embarrassment, one part relief, perhaps. Nicole had probably expected worse.

"That doesn't really say much about favored position there, Monica," Ana grinned, winking at Nicole to let her in on the joke. The younger girl looked at her, astonished, and she attempted to make her face expressive enough--_I'm just indulging her, don't pay attention to anything she says._

"She's probably still doing missionary," Monica snipped, offended, and Nicole's answering squawk was incriminating. "You're young," Monica patted her shoulder. "You'll learn." She did another sizing up, as she had done to Ana. "I think you'll probably find the 'legs-up' is the way to go."

"I--!" Was all Nicole could manage.

"Like this," Monica stubbed out her second cigarette, half-finished, and lifted her legs. She braced them against the counter-top, gripping the edge of her stool to keep from falling. "He comes in at _this_ angle," she gestured with one hand, making Nicole go purple, "and it gives _much_ better stimulation all around. Try it."

"So, favorites can change?" Ana inquired, suddenly interested now that Nicole was here to--sort of--prove the veracity of Monica's "gift."

"No, but when you're young, you don't know any better. Terry was a virgin, right?"

Nicole's jaw was perilously close to falling off.

"Nicole, you don't have to answer her. Tell her to knock it off if it bothers you." All three of them understood Nicole's reactions well enough so as to make verbal verification unnecessary.

"He _was_, I know, Ana knows, too, if she thinks about it hard enough. So, he's a missionary man, too. For now. You'll like what he comes up with, but remember the legs-up when he gets his turn." Monica punched Nicole's shoulder, lightly enough to show encouragement. "Educate the man, girl. You should know by now what works for you."

Despite her shock and rapidly darkening cheeks, Nicole nodded. To Ana's further surprise, she dared to respond. "Yeah."

"Yeah? Yeah? Legs-up, I'm right, aren't I?"

"Well, I haven't, I mean I haven't tried, but.."

"Sounds good though, _doesn't it_?" 

"Yeah," Nicole said, sounding as if she really meant it. Monica looked over to Ana, kicking her legs in triumph and giggling before she righted herself on her stool.

"Impressive," Ana conceded. By no means convinced, she could nevertheless enjoy the game. Monica was pretty good for distraction; it was her _real_ talent, whatever she might think of her psychic abilities. "Who's next?" She and Nicole checked over Monica's shoulder. Kenneth was after Glenn. Monica, ever a consummate show-woman, backed up, spreading her hands palms-up over the list, an invitation for them to guess before the magician performed her trick. Ana considered it--this wasn't about the list of what to take any more, not since 'C.J.' had been an answer for Glenn. _What would Kenneth want in a partner?_

"From behind?" Nicole offered, the fading color in her cheeks rising again as she struggled with this euphemism. Monica appeared to weigh this against her prognosis, then shook her head.

"Maybe him standing, woman on a counter?" Ana suggested. It wasn't too difficult to picture their resident stoic in that position, allowing him the driving force while standing, and a brace for the woman. Luis liked that, too. Thoughts of Luis were too deep, too serious for this stupid game; she missed Monica's reply as she banished the pain of losing him. "What?"

"I said you were getting warmer. In fact, you're very close. Well done," Monica congratulated her.

"So, how?" Now Nicole was hooked, too.

"Against the wall."

"No way," Nicole argued, "too much...work."

"You'll learn," Monica sing-songed. "Kenneth's a hard fuck, little girl."

"Monica, that's pushing it." Kenneth was a sweetheart no matter his gruff exterior. He had spared and saved her life when he came along to investigate the wreck of her car. Ana would hear nothing against him, certainly not some stereotyped cliche from a woman whose judgment with regards to sex--if Steve was any indication--was sorely lacking.

"He's a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am guy, Ana. He can still be a _nice_ guy about it. It's not like the first time he gets a woman he screws her with her feet off the ground." Monica could be awfully tetchy when challenged; Ana stopped herself short of calling her a bitch...when she could. "A lot of women _like_ that kind of initiative. It's sexy and it's exciting. He's attentive, too. You'd be rocked out of this world before he banged you hard enough to break your tailbone."

Nicole giggled. "That still doesn't seem very comfortable."

"Trust me, with that kind of clit stimulation, you wouldn't care if your whole backside was black and blue. And he's a post-coitus cuddler, too, you better believe it."

"Oh, now I get it," Ana put her hands on her hips, tapping one finger. "He's pushy, but he still has a 'heart of gold'?"

"He's a _good_ man," Monica reiterated, stubborn. "You're just being ignorant."

"_What_?"

"You think I mean he fucks women like that all the time. I didn't say that. I just said that's his _favorite_ method. To the point, then comfort petting after. As opposed to missionary," she pointed at Nicole, who had no time to defend herself before she leveled the finger in Ana's direction, "or a talker."

"Excuse me?"

"You're a talker."

"My sex life is _not_ open to discussion."

"Oh, but it's okay to talk about everyone else's? Mine? Nicole's?" Monica's self-righteous indignation she could shake off, but Nicole's hurt betrayal, clear in her wide eyes, dogged Ana into backing off, if only slightly.

"I'm not _having_ sex. You two are talking about _current_ things."

"That's no excuse. Kenneth isn't fucking around either, nor is Tucker, or Glenn, or C.J." Monica growled. "What? You're somehow exempt from the truth because your husband's dead? You get some sort of gossip get-out-of-jail pass 'cause your husband is a fucking _ghoul_?"

Ana fell back a step. Monica, she knew, liked innuendo; however, she also loved telling the shocking truth whenever she could. Tact, as far as the other woman cared, was useless, boring, and unnecessary. Still, Ana would have endured every accusation, every name, anything Monica wanted to dream up about her sex life, and hear it everyday until one of them died or they split up. That torment everyday would never, _could_ never be half so hurtful as what had just escaped Monica's lips.

"Jesus," Monica sighed, dropped her forehead into one propped hand. "I'm sorry. That was...shitty." Even Monica recognized the line she'd violated. Nicole placed a hand over her mouth, shocked, apologetic. "I'm sorry," Monica said again.

"How..._dare_ you..." Ana whispered, willing herself not to cry. No, she would not cry. Not in front of Monica, not in front of Nicole.

"I didn't mean...Jesus, I'm bad at this."

"Ana, she didn't mean it," Nicole reached out for Ana's hand, but she the girl's effort away.

She _did_ mean it. It was the truth, as Monica saw it, and Monica never saw any problem with the truth. Worse, Ana _knew_ it was the truth. Luis _was_ dead. Luis' body _was_ one of those things outside, like them, only somewhere else (she checked everyday to be sure). Her hand clutched at her necklace, the one he'd given her for their anniversary last year, gold, with the saint who was his namesake on it. Because she didn't go to church, he had lent her his guardian angel.

"Neck woman."

"What?" She narrowed her eyes. Anything from Monica that wasn't abject apology, she didn't want to hear.

"You're a neck woman. Licking, sucking, biting...well, probably not biting any more," Monica amended. "And wet."

"What?" Less hostile, though guarded, Ana smothered her amazement at this assessment.

"Pool, skinny-dipping sex, definitely shower and tubs, probably rain, too."

For the second time, Monica managed to stun her to silence. This time, it wasn't quite so painful. She thought of the last time she and Luis had made love, how she'd told him their water bill was going to be through the roof as they spent nearly two hours in the shower. The water had turned ice-cold before they separated; they'd made love until there were goose bumps all over. She'd asked him to turn it off, so he kicked at it, dragging her down on top of him, never disengaging, and she had complimented him for being so talented. He'd responded by sucking at the hollow of her throat; she called him a vampire. Monica was right: she liked the water _and_ she was a talker.

Her silence was proof enough, and Monica veered off discussion of her sex life for the safer ground of persons not present. They'd skipped to her anyway; the next name on the list wasn't hers.

"Andy?" Nicole asked, incredulous. "Really? You can guess from here?"

"I'm not _guessing_," Monica pouted. "Have I been wrong so far?" She looked pointedly at Nicole but avoided Ana.

"N-no," Nicole stammered, coloring.

"No," Ana murmured, still lost in happier memories of Luis. He had always said she talked more than any of his other girlfriends. He liked it, liked how she teased him, how she still flirted after two years of marriage, three years together. Three years undone in three minutes, or less.

"Andy's a feeler. Premature ejaculator."

"What?" Nicole shrieked.

"Gun-nut," Monica reminded her, wagging her index finger, newly adorned with another cigarette between it and her middle finger. "Definitely compensating. He likes coping a feel, and it makes him 'safe.' Guys who grope and go away are 'safer' than guys who don't but want to fuck you because the first group _go away_."

"That's a bit..."

"It may seem like it, but it makes sense. He likes stroking the balls and the underside of the cock, especially."

"Wait, wait, you think _Andy's_ gay, too?" Recovering from the distraction of her memory, Ana couldn't quite follow Monica-logic. "Because he likes guns?"

"No, because he's flirting with Kenneth."

"They're just..."

"Maybe _Kenneth is just_," Monica shrugged, giving the impression that her incredulity was expected but incorrect. "He likes the underside because it's more sensitive. The balls because he's not comfortable with his own dick."

"How do you _know_ that?" Nicole gaped, fascinated and not a little bewildered.

"I just do. I've always known these things. It's just so _obvious,_ isn't it?" She tossed her curls about her head a couple of times, pouting. "But no one else ever sees it."

"I think you're inventing this."

"Ask Andy."

"I don't think that's a good idea." It wasn't, but Monica's self-assured air almost goaded her into doing it. Sweet revenge for the gut-wrenching Monica had dealt her-going up to the roof and finding out Andy had a wife and kids and liked the Kama Sutra.

"Well, I'm right, and you two both know it."

"Lucky guess," Ana dismissed it. It could be. She often played with her necklace, touched her neck when she thought of Luis--though that might have to do more with her memories of how he had died than how he had made love to her--and Nicole _was_ young and probably _didn't_ know much more than the standard position. "And you _know_ what Steve likes."

"So, ask..." Monica swivelled on her stool to scan the nearby area. Ana groaned inwardly. Which unfortunate member of their group would happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? Who would Monica insist fess up to the position or perversion or whatever that she imagined for them?

As it turned out, C.J. was the victim. He emerged from the garage, wiping his hands free of dirt and grease, sweaty and worn out from a long day spent reinforcing the buses, arranging some of the make-shift arsenal, and the like. Monica beckoned him over with a mock serious gesture, waving her arm urgently, quite a change from her typical coquettish crooked finger and batted eyelashes.

"What?" C.J. barked, irritably.

"Answer a question."

"What?" C.J. crossed his arms, looking askance at Monica, suspicious.

"Say I offered you a blow-job or a fuck, which would you take?"

C.J. raised one eyebrow. "You, personally, or is this a hypothetical?" For C.J., this wasn't at all in the realm of possibility that Monica might make such an offer--it was more of an _inevitability_. It was a fair question for just about anyone, Ana thought, rather unkindly.

"Surprise, asshole, it's a hypothetical. Answer the question," Monica gritted her teeth, her normally bland, unaffected ease straining to stay in place. Although unabashed by her own behavior, Monica had her limits with her reputation among the group; she might not have minded being considered easy, but C.J.'s tone implied something more derogatory, a word she probably heard often in her former life: slut. For the unashamed and sexually adventurous, it was probably a brand. Ana might even have defended her, if she were not still smarting at Monica for her comments about Luis.

"Blow-job, probably," C.J. answered, tucking his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. "Why?"

"So, you'd say you liked that _better_ than sex."

"Depends. Why?"

"Not important."

"Nuh-uh," C.J. protested. "I need a reason."

"Monica is psychic. She said you'd say that," Nicole jumped in. Monica flashed Nicole a conspiratorial grin, resuming a impassively innocent look when she looked back at C.J.

"Psychic, huh? Makes sense. Doesn't require much brains and you're too small to be a stripper," C.J. quipped, casting a snarky leer at her breasts, retreating before any of them could respond. Although C.J.'s reaction was wounded pride talking, Ana saw Monica visibly deflate.

"Don't listen to him," Nicole consoled her.

"He doesn't bother me," Monica tossed her hair, frazzled. Ana said nothing, finally recognizing the gesture for what it was: whenever Monica felt helpless or depressed or despondent, she threw her hair about. Maybe it worked to distract people from her flaws, her weaknesses. No doubt it worked as a distraction all too well, all too often, thus reinforcing the behavior.

The three of them lapsed into the first embarrassed silence since they had begun the entente. Ana attributed this to Monica's personal humiliation and hurt; otherwise, at least one of them would have talked right through the blushes and denials. She took a deep breath, fishing for some snippet of conversation to reanimate them, to shy away from C.J. and his own version of rude truths. Her eyes fell on the list under Monica's tapping fingers. While she had stopped writing down people's "Desires" after Terry and Nicole, everyone on the list and in the mall, herself included had been covered. Except for Monica and Michael.

"What about you Monica?"

"What about me _what_?" Her tone was petulant, sore.

"What's your favorite position?" Ana attempted a smirk and a swaggering eyebrow.

"Oh me, how boring," Monica did not rise to the bait. "Isn't C.J. right? Aren't I just open to everything?"

"C.J.'s an ass," Nicole stated. "Us girls can be honest, though, right?" Her feigned solidarity was belied by her crimson face. Despite that, Monica warmed to her enthusiasm, sitting up straighter out of her slump. "Okay, so I'm still figuring it out, and Ana's..." she glanced at Ana, seeking permission and assistance.

"A talking fish, apparently," Ana shrugged, unable to clamp down on her smile. Monica's eyebrows lifted, respect and interest evident in her hopeful expression. "Your turn. You said it yourself. No exceptions."

"Well," Monica shook her shoulders, reinvigorating herself. "I am the most experienced here, for sure, I won't lie. I like sex, love it, in fact. I don't see what's wrong with that. If you like someone, find them attractive, and they like you back, I don't see why--so long as you're cautious--" she cast a significant look at Nicole--"I don't see what's wrong with giving each other pleasure. Never have. Maybe it's my hippy parents and their free-love speech, but I've always been sexual. It's empowering."

"It has its moments," Ana confessed. Like when Luis massaged her whole body after a full day of work, easing out the tension because he loved her and wanted her to be content and because he knew he would get laid if he did. She'd told him that, too. _'You only do this--oh,' as he found a knot and undid it, 'because you know I'll reward you.' He didn't answer her, just began to massage more sensitive areas, then mixed her exclamations of pleasure with his_. Ana shuddered, delighted at the strength of it, how it could repress pain and waken pleasure. How there was good to be had even after chaos.

"Like hell," Monica agreed, shaking one fist. "And it's the only male weakness. Tell him he fails to satisfy, you might as well kill him, put him out of his misery." She nodded, a sage lecturing to her pupils. "_That's_ what I like best. The power of it. I can walk away from anything, anyone, and tell them how I feel and not care if it hurts their feelings or not. If it's the truth, I let them have it." Ashes fell from her cigarette as she tapped it over the ashtray.

"That's it?" Nicole sounded disappointed; once more, she expected the risque and discovered the ordinary.

"Honey, it's all about having a good time. Men play at sex like it's a power trip, like they're gods on earth because they can rack up. Well, I just think it's better to level the playing field. In the long run, a vibrator is more satisfying than a man and more reliable. The sooner they know that, the sooner we see a lot fewer people like C.J."

"Don't you feel bad telling people off ?"

"Not if they deserve it. I told Steve off." Seeing their shocked looks, she grinned, stubbing out her third cigarette with some satisfaction. "He's a good lay and he took care of me where it counts, but he's an _asshole._ I don't care if he's Casanova--if he treats me like a slut, he's not getting any. End of story. In this shit-hole time, he can't afford his attitude. It's gonna cost him," she spat, venomous.

Ana felt almost proud of Monica. The woman might exaggerate her quest for sexual equality to downplay her promiscuity, but she had valid points. And, if she really did give Steve the cold shoulder, that meant at least she was taking a step in the right direction towards sanity. A nagging in her brain refused to let her dwell on this. They were missing something. What was it? What wasn't being discussed here?

"Hey," she said, wondrous, "what about Michael? You haven't read his mind."

Nicole, instead of blushing, blanched. Whatever she and Michael talked about a day or two ago, it obviously excluded the subject of his sex life. Nicole looked like she'd been told there was no stork to deliver babies. Like a child learning her parents kissed and _worse_. The realization of a teenager who enjoyed sexual freedom but shuddered to think of how she came to be because of what it meant. It meant mom and dad enjoyed the same liberties. Might _still_ enjoy them.

"He's a hard read," Monica frowned. "A guy like that? Divorced that many times? I'd almost say wife-beater. No one's _that_ unlucky unless they're royal, royally rich, or a royal pain-in-the-ass."

"Michael wouldn't do that!" Nicole shouted, defensive. "He wouldn't want to hurt anyone."

"Relax, kid," Monica rolled her eyes. "I just said it was a possibility. I don't think it's true."

"Maybe he's got a weird fetish," Ana suggested, eyes dancing with playful malevolence. She tried picturing Michael as an autoerotic, as a furry, anything. Each time she did, she laughed, unable to dress him up in the costumes in her mind. Judging from Nicole's and Monica's giggles, they were doing the same.

"I thought of that. That's not it. Not what I'm getting." She did play the psychic role rather well. "It's more of a fantasy vibes. Like role-playing. Maybe he's got a hero-complex?" Thinking aloud, Monica still disagreed with herself, puzzling out whatever her gift told her without their help. "That's not it. Maybe he's just lousy in bed. That would put off any long-term relationships."

"He has kids," Nicole put in, softly, fondly. Ana stared at her. _Kids_? As in more than one? More than what they knew. They knew he had at least one, but Nicole knew more and elaborated on her statement. "He has a daughter and a son that are two years apart. They're _full_ siblings." Implying he'd been with one of his wives long enough to have two children.

"Hmm, that's helpful," Monica mused, tapping her chin with a lacquered fingernail. Ana ran her finger over her bottom lip, just thinking, absorbing the information. Michael with children. It made such lovely sense. It surprised them all, moved her to sorrow and sympathy for him; next to that, she imagined her loss must seem trivial. How did a husband and lover compare to children? Children were supposed to live forever, leaving their parents behind to wither and die, fading into memory. Losing a parent scarred a person, Nicole bore the signs of it all too vividly, but the loss of life that you created...how many mothers wept in the nursery ward when their babies never got to go home?

"Were they dead before this or because of it?"

"Because, I think. He said he couldn't get to them."

Monica stopped tapping her fingernail. Another line crossed, another secret, hideous and ugly, brought to light. Ana could see where she'd intended to go with the question. If he'd lost them before...before that dawn, then he was walking wounded, and his destroyed relationships had a simple explanation. For Monica's purposes, extant children were a complication to her psychic and somewhat scientific method. However, none of them could just ignore what Nicole had shared, pretend that there wasn't new admiration and pity for their friend who kept going despite it all.

"Hnn, well," Monica recovered, the respectful moment of silence ended. "Damned if I know. I can only get vague impressions. I think he's got submission issues."

"What's that?" Nicole furrowed her brow, attempting to understand on a purely academic level and not a personal one.

"Call it passive-aggressive pseudo-masochism if you want."

"What?" Even Ana couldn't follow that. Monica's talent for redirection was prodigious.

"It's a vibes I keep getting. He wants to be pushed around a bit. Not too much, but maybe an older woman, one with more authority than him. Yeahhh," she drawled, her dawning comprehension solidifying. "She's in control, but she can't do it without him. Needs to be needed, but likes to submit. Most women want men, on some level, to be take-chargers, go-getters. He wants _her _to take charge but to need him. Hot damn! I got it! He likes the woman on top!" She snapped her fingers and stamped her heels. "Michael's hot for teacher!"

"Monica!" Nicole cried. "Stop, that's not nice."

"Oh, grow up. And don't forget your condoms when we leave. Little you-and-Terry's running around? Ugh," she pulled a face.

"Hey," Nicole began, but that was the last Ana heard. Her mind dwelt on what Monica had said. Monica, despite her not-so-sure bravura and big mouth, still was sharp with her assessments. Maybe she did know sex better than the rest of them, commensurate with experience. More to the point, she could picture Michael as Monica laid him out for them, and her imagination was in perfect harmony with her sensibility. Michael in a corner, backed into a chair, pinned but pushing back...

_No._ No, not cornered. Allowing himself to _appear_ cornered. That was more likely. Like memory of him convincing C.J. to paint the signs on the roof. It was all _C.J.'s_ idea, his orders, his enforcement, but Michael had provoked him, set him to the task. It blossomed outward from there, manipulation to get what he wanted without ever letting the others know it. She could even see herself, climbing into his lap, desperate after so long, pushing him down, smothering him, finding out only after that he'd laid a trap, planted the idea in her mind, played the prey to lure the hunter out, then turned predator himself...

Flashes of red from polished fingernails on snapping fingers brought her sharply out of the guilty reverie. Monica leaned back, impressed. "Where are you, and _what_ are they serving there?" Ana felt her cheeks; they were warm, undoubtedly as flushed as Nicole's had been.

"Sorry, I was thinking about my husband," she fumbled, a stab of shame causing her to falter. Luis was who she should have been thinking about. As if to justify her lie, she tried to call up similar scenarios, times when her and Luis' play had fallen along the lines drawn up by her imagination. Michael vanished, the heat in her face fell away.

"Mm, sure I would have loved to have met _him_," Monica sniffed, waggling eyebrows lecherously.

"Monica," she warned, stiffer, guiltily severe.

"Right, right, off-limits," she made a chopping motion with one hand. "Nicole, on the other hand, is fair game." Rounding on the younger girl, Monica leaned back, malicious intent written all over her posture.

"Hey now," Nicole blurted, nervous, "hey, just wait..."

"Nicole!"

Terry was waving to her from the stairs. Monica turned to regard him cooly over her shoulder.

"Saved by the cherry."

Face aflame, Nicole slid from her stool, uttered a perfunctory goodbye, mostly directed towards Ana, and scuffled her shoes as she escaped.

"Hey!" Monica called after her. Reaching into the small handbag she'd appropriated from Gaylen Ross, Monica tossed a box after Nicole. It was of a nondescript size and shape, the bland monotone color with a slightly different shade for a word bubble. Each of them knew what it was. Terry's eyes might have fallen from his sockets, his face might have rivaled Nicole's for shade, but Nicole yanked him upstairs--_after_ catching the box and concealing it, poorly, in the hand not wrapped around Terry's arm. Satisfied, Monica returned her attention to Ana. "At least that will keep them out of trouble for a while."

"You're a kind of...all right, Monica," Ana stiltedly, confusedly conceded. "But did you _have_ to do that?"

"Damn straight," she replied, lighting a fourth cigarette. She tapped her list. "This is what people _really_ need."

"You're not on this, you know."

"Yeah, I know. What I need isn't really here."

"And what do you need? _Really_?"

"Damned if I know," Monica shrugged. She, rather purposefully, did not politely exhale her smoke away from Ana. A _'go away'_ brush-off. Resigned, Ana backed off. Okay, no more lists, not of this type. Too complicated. If people wanted a little something for themselves, they could pack it in after they got the supplies loaded.

"I'm going to see if they need help with anything in the garage. I need to get away from paperwork."

"Michael said something about padding for the insides. Maybe you can help him with that." She cast a superficial look over at her. "You do hospital corners, right? Nurse?"

"Ha, ha," Ana grunted. "I'm not a maid. I'm a care-taker."

"So, go, care-take that boy. Give him a physical, play nurse. Tell him what to do. _Trust me_, he'll enjoy it. Scram!"

Ana ignored this, though she did head towards the garage access. Thus excused, she left Monica behind to smoke, congratulate herself, or sulk, just as she chose. Later, when she returned and found the Monica's list missing, she didn't give it another thought. Later still, as she collapsed on her display mattress in Metropolis, an odd crinkle replaced the soft _whoosh_ of air escaping her pillow. Reaching underneath, she found the paper titled _Desires_. The list, names and needs was now complete. At the top, before Steve, Monica scrunched in her own name. Her need?

_Love_, it said, with commentary_, how pathetic, huh?_

Anna scanned it, covertly stealing glances over the room to be sure no one saw her. Terry and Nicole were star-gazing tonight, or so they said--Monica's suspicions on that score were probably correct. Glenn, Tucker and C.J. were involved in some heated discussion a few stores down. Kenneth slept in a lay-z-boy in the corner, his shotgun barrel-down and resting against the arm. Monica on a four-poster, Steve, she noted with a smirk, figuratively and _literally_ on the couch nearby. In the doghouse for sure. Michael, passed out on the queen size bed that had been Andre and Luda's the first night, the only bed large enough to accommodate his height. 

A smile tickled her lips, watching him breathe in slowly, calmly, his mouth open a fraction, fly-catching, like her brother did when they were kids. Seeing him sleep warmed her, and, happily, she rolled over onto her back, the list above her face in one hand. Tucker, _porn_. Steve,_ mirrors_. C.J., _blow-job_. Glenn, _C.J._ Terry and Nicole, _condoms _('_lots_' was another addition). Kenneth, _padding_. She stifled a chuckle at that. Andy, _Kenneth, but alas, is not to be._ Monica's sense of humor came off better when the woman herself was not immediately present. 

Her name. Ana, _an inflatable kiddie pool_. A pool for the talking fish. Well, she'd have the lake at the very least. Maybe if the islands were no better off than the cities, she would indulge herself. With whom was an unknown variable; she pretended there wasn't a front-runner for the position. _Speaking of front-runners_...she came at last to Michael's name.

Michael, _Ana._


	3. Memory

**Title: As You Are, So Am I**

**III: Memory**

**Rating:** PG-13 (language)

**Author's Notes:** This chapter was particularly hard to write given the characters involved, mostly because, if _Dawn of the Dead _has a failing, it's that few of the characters are developed as well as they ought to be. Minor characters that become major players have to go through some evolution in order for them to have some purpose to the story; otherwise they're just your typical exchangeable victims (characters guilty of this: Glenn, Monica, Nicole, Luda, Norma, Bart). However, those characters are easy to write—they have stock personalities (the slut, the racist, the this, the that). I was more interested in someone who evolved, and hopefully this chapter explicates the reasons for that evolution. Enjoy.

Everyone went to sleep so damn early. While he should have been able to chalk it up to the fact that most of the folks in his mall didn't work the late shift—prior to the world going to Hell, that was—it didn't cease to annoy C.J. For one, the nurse, Ana—he couldn't stop thinking of her as 'that fucking nurse' even if they got along better now—she was an early riser. He'd manage to exhaust himself through welding work on the buses so that he could crash at a relatively early time, like three or four am. All he'd get for it was her being up and about not more than three hours after he'd fallen into bed. It was getting on his nerves.

Luckily, the lack of societal supervision in the post-apocalypse Crossroads Mall meant that not a few of the others eventually started to live life according to their natural internal clocks. Kenneth and Michael slept as late as nine some mornings, and Terry and Nicole were never seen before ten, though their company was scarce at night, too, for reasons he preferred not to investigate too thoroughly. Steve kept scatter-shot hours, awake here and there in the night or day, never on any routine C.J. bothered to keep track of, but usually coinciding with any moments Monica might find free in _her_ day. Tucker and Glenn stayed up late with him, enjoying some still-cool beer, bemoaning their fates when the generators died and warm Buds were all they had.

They were up now, in Hallowed Grounds, tossing back some cold ones, wiped from a day's work. Glenn had shown surprising talent for the re-wiring the buses required, and Tucker, despite his still-healing injury, had gophered all day. A chilled can of suds was the very least this world owed them, C.J. figured.

"Tucker, toss me another," he called when the other man got up for a refresher. "Glenn?"

"No, thank you." Glenn never had more than one. C.J. always asked, but the church-boy refused anything more tempting. It was what he was good at. That and prayers. Before Glenn would pop a tab, he'd say a Hail Mary. Shrugging to himself, C.J. caught the beer can Tucker lobbed underhanded with one hand and reached into his back pocket to pull out his date book.

"What's that?" Tucker settled himself on a stool one over from C.J., resting his foot on the one between them.

"'S a journal," C.J. muttered, hoping that would answer and avoid any more questions. To his horror, Glenn looked up from his bible, taking an interest.

"A journal about our time here?"

"More or less," he said, noncommittally. It wasn't a big deal. If it had been, he'd have shared, right? The others didn't seem inclined to think so. Instead of being unimportant, his stupid date book, which no one had ever noticed him scratching in before, was secretive and, therefore, attractive.

"What d'ya write in it?" Tucker asked, gulping down a full third of his fresh can.

"The date, mostly." This was true if vague.

"Keeping track of time, are we?" Glenn sounded keen, almost proud. He couldn't figure why someone like Glenn would be so pleased by such a small gesture, but maybe that was part of his faith—good works were small deeds or something. It had been a long time since C.J.'d been to anything resembling a church.

"Yeah, sort of."

"You write what we do in there?" Tucker leaned forward to get a better look at the small ledger. C.J. was faced with a problem. If he pulled his journal back now, it would mean a round of teasing he didn't need, want, or have the patience to tolerate. If he left it out and had to answer ceaseless questions about it...well, pretty much the same thing would happen. Damned, one way or the other.

"I keep track of what's been happening in the past couple of weeks, yeah."

"Like 'Day Three: was stuck in cage again all day?"

"Very funny."

"I was under the impression," Glenn interjected, "that caged men often are more aware of time's passage than free men. It makes complete sense that someone would have kept a journal, especially you, C.J."

Tucker and he shared a look at Glenn's expense before C.J. gave a neutral, "huh," in reply.

"When I ministered to men in prison—"

"You were a chaplain?" Tucker interrupted.

"No, merely a social worker, spreading the good word." If Glenn didn't constantly refer to his religious works with such a complete lack of artifice or irony, C.J. might have been able to swallow it; but Glenn's virtuous, humorless, one-hundred-percent faithful, obedient humility grated on his nerves.

"So, basically, you were selling snake oil to a captive audience."

That got a reaction. Glenn's expression was the picture you'd find next to the definition of the word 'shock' and probably some other words, too: outrage, shame, pride, defiance._ Good_. In the past week and a half, strangers had broken into his mall, stolen his gun, kept him captive, then relied upon him to help them out and talked him into making a mad dash for an unknown island sometime in the near future. It was about goddamned time one of them stopped believing whole-heartedly in what they were doing, or what they were about.

"You seem to have a problem with the church, C.J."

"No problem, really. I just don't buy trusting in someone you've never seen to cover your ass when it's in the fire."

"Amen, brother," Tucker chimed in, raising his Budweiser in salute and draining down. "Never trucked with religion of any sort myself. Kept away from it so long as it kept away from me."

"Regardless of your skepticism," Glenn dismissed them gently, "God is watching out for us nonetheless. How else can you explain how we have come to be here in this fortress of safety?"

"Luck," C.J. spat out. "Good or bad, I can't tell just yet, but it's all a matter of odds."

"I'd say good luck. Better to be alive or dead than whatever those things are." They were quiet for a moment after Tucker spoke, tuning back into what had otherwise become merely white noise: the sounds of the dead banging on their doors.

"We should pity them," Glenn said quietly. "They are trapped souls unable to find their way to Heaven. Perhaps it's true what Reverend Jones said on the radio: Hell is overflowing and has leaked out its damned upon the streets."

"If those are the damned out there," Tucker rubbed his chin, mock-thoughtful, "what the hell am I doing in here?"

"Amen to that," C.J. agreed.

Undaunted, Glenn adjusted his approach. "Is that why you write in a journal? Is that your form of confession?"

"No." He wasn't interested in redemption—he just didn't want to die. And, although some of the folks at the Crossroads might not believe it, C.J. understood death had as many levels to it as life did. It's not that he didn't care if he physically lived or dead—he most certainly had a firm pro-living stance on that issue—but what would it matter if he lived or died and no one knew? It hadn't taken the end of the world to make him think like this, he always had, but it helped. His current problem was explaining that to Tucker and Glenn.

"It's just my life. Stuff that happens to me. I've always kept one."

"Not me, man," Tucker shook his head, chuckling. "I used to try to keep up and I'd make it as long as a couple of days then stop writing. Had a full box worth of unfinished journals back at my place."

"I confess," Glenn added, sheepishly, "I would only ever write when I was excited or really angry. It made me sound as though I was manic-depressive." _Until you found God,_ C.J. thought at him, daring him to say it. He oughtn't to have bothered; it was obviously coming. "I find now that it's better to invest that time in prayer. God remembers longer than man."

"I don't think he does, choir boy."

"What do you mean?"

Okay, what _did_ he mean by that? It had simply sounded good in his brain not to agree with Glenn. So, now that he was committed to it—and thirty-five years of life had taught him to recognize it as such, this knack for inventing reasons to support the bullshit that his mouth spewed—how did he defend man's constant errors of omission against the supposedly infallible God that Glenn adored so fucking much?

"God isn't remembering any of us."

"He has provided for us, brought us together, kept us safe. In these times of crisis, God saves." When C.J. couldn't fight back an incredulous grunt, Glenn continued, more forcefully. "It would be pushing the limit of credible coincidence to have such a group gathered here, would it not?"

"I don't follow."

"Well, for instance, we have a police officer, so there's a peacekeeper who's trained in keeping the law, keeping us all safe. Steven has a method of transporting us to safety. There's Michael, he's rather...innovative," Glenn fumbled. That was okay; there really was no way to describe Michael. "I can provide a modicum of spiritual guidance, if requested," and here there was a pointed look at him that C.J. ignored. "And there's you, of course, who happened to be here and be able to lock this place up, securing a haven for us all."

It occurred to C.J. to interrupt, but Glenn was on a roll.

"There are also very few of the fairer sex here. Not to generalize, of course," Glenn mitigated, a classic line meaning he intended to do exactly that, "but they are typically less well equipped to deal with physical struggle. Wait, wait, hear me out," he held up a hand to forestall any complaints. He needn't have bothered; neither of the pair of listeners would argue with this logic. "So few women, but the few we do have, er, that is to say, the few we _did_ have..."

"Norma," Tucker nodded, doffing his cap in a surprisingly heartfelt gesture. "Good woman. Helluva trucker." C.J. could only shrug—up until she died, he had never really seen her.

"Yes, and that poor young woman."

"The pregnant chick, right?" Ana and the others who had found her hadn't needed to elaborate on what had happened to her. And he hadn't learned her name either.

"I find it hard to believe that women who might not have the physical prowess of some of our other friends, but possess skills and talents that are otherwise essential to our survival here, are here just by chance."

"Wait a second, Glenn," C.J. frowned. "How the hell do you figure that?"

"For one, Norma was able to carry us all to safety in a piece of machinery that not many could safely operate."

"Crack shot, too, I was in the cab with her," Tucker supplemented enthusiastically.

"And the Russian girl?"

"More symbolic than necessary," Glenn conceded, "but she was a sign of the new life that will eventually inherit this earth."

"Right," C.J. said, at a loss for better, more loquacious speech. The dead pregnant woman was a sign of what would own the earth. Either Glenn was not aware of the inference he had just made or he was ignorant enough to assume that the events of that night could be overlooked for the sake of a vision—his. He might not really have cared what happened to that girl, but he shuddered to think what she and the monster the others had described meant for the future.

"Well, I guess I can see what you're saying, Glenn," Tucker said, his tone guarded. "Ana's sure useful."

"Yes, what were the _odds_"—and here he leveled a severe look at C.J.—"that a medical professional would survive? The hospitals were among the first places overrun, according to the radio."

"Were they?" C.J. asked before he could catch himself. Of course, they would be. The injured would go there, and the injured would die and turn. Then there would be more injuries, more dead, more problems.

"Oh yes," Glenn intoned dramatically. "It's a miracle that young lady has survived."

"What about Monica?"

"Well, she..." Glenn faltered, his left eyelid twitching.

"Is she for the knocking-up, too?" C.J. grinned at Glenn's horror. "Well?"

"That's a very crude..."

"But that's more or less it, isn't it? Or can't you say that she's just here to relieve the tension of us heathens?" Hell, that was more or less the only function he imagine Monica served.

"We need women to ensure the survival of the human race," Glenn offered, though it didn't sound as if he really believed it. Seeing as he usually believed everything he said, that was rather remarkable.

"Some race," C.J. snarled, chugging his beer. "Ain't worth saving at this point, if you ask me."

He expected some more righteous anger, but the source was a surprise—Tucker. "Oh? Then why are you keeping track of your life in that book? Isn't so that if you die someone will remember you?" Tucker had on a shit-eating grin that spread clear across his homely mug. To Glenn, he deferred by saying, "other than God, of course," but it was from _him_ that Tucker looked for an answer.

"I guess," he admitted, the beer loosening the sharper edge on his tongue. "Maybe," he bought some time and courage with another swig from the can. His audience didn't look like the type to be shaken, not when they were so close to getting an explanation out of him. "Maybe I don't like the idea of going down permanently."

"Without a name," Tucker said, his eyes unfocused as he looked backward into his own memories. There were stories, rushed explanations when he'd been let out, and hushed conversations since, about the pair of people from the truck who'd turned—Terry's girlfriend's dad and some lady no one knew. He'd die before telling Tucker or Glenn this, but when he'd heard the shotgun blast echo through the mall, he'd redoubled his efforts at detail in his date book.

"It's a terrible thing to die alone. That poor woman."

"Poor my ass," C.J. snarled, truth touching off his nerves—his _bad_ ones. "It was her or you, right? Tough shit, that's life."

"I wonder," Glenn mused, not meeting his eye, "if she had kept a diary of her own, would we have known her any better?"

"It's not a fucking _diary_!" He was hollering—Ana was going to come out of Metropolis and kick his ass. Or worse, shame him to death; she was the type. It didn't matter. "It's not some fucking sob story about how nobody likes me or shit like that! I'm not a fucking _female_!"

"Hey, hey, relax, man—"

"Fuck you, too, Tucker!"

"Language," Glenn tittered.

"Shut the fuck up, Father Fuckwit," C.J. growled, but the fight had gone out of him that quickly. It was no use railing at Glenn or Tucker. Glenn would pray for his soul and warn him about the sin of wrath or something, and besides, Glenn didn't deserve it. And he even kind of liked Tucker as friend—the guy was more trustworthy than Steve, less holier-than-thou than Glenn, more friendly than Kenneth, more mature than Terry (or than Bart had been, for that matter), and less...whatever Michael was (if he had to choose, he'd have said 'annoyingly right all the goddamned time').

"So, what are you keeping track of there?" Tucker nodded at the little black book.

"It's just useful information."

"Like what?" Tucker leaned forward again to read it. "June 4, 2004." He paused, looked at the ceiling, calculating. "That today?"

"Best I can figure, yeah."

"June 4th," Tucker said to himself; he sounded as though he were trying to give the date some meaning. One thing C.J. had learned while keeping this log at the mall was that no date had meaning other than to mark the passage of time. Without governments, religions, industries, and superstition to parse out which days were of specific relevance, one day was as good as the next. Some days would be colder, some wetter, some sunnier, some windier, and that was it.

"Trinity Sunday is in two days," Glenn murmured without expectation of interest.

"That's all it says," Tucker said, shaking himself. "Just the date?"

"Haven't had time for anything else yet." He flipped back a week, and the book opened on the night of the dinner. Of course, his perspective that night had been a little different from Glenn or Tucker's. It had been the night the generators went out, the night Bart died, the night he'd escaped the cell for truants and shoplifters in the Security Office. He'd only noticed the full spread on one of the dining sets at Metropolis right after he'd been granted freedom in exchange for his help with the generators. The night Bart had died...

He flipped back a few more pages.

"May 25th," he read off, "five people broke in through loading dock behind Metropolis. Shotgunned lock, bolt still holding. Broke display window. None look sick. Picked up shotgun, .45 off two of them. Lance dead by croquet mallet, shot Lin and Ben in the head. Shooting them in the head is the only way to keep them down. Dumped bodies outside. Others painted roof. Thing are attracted to the mall—to us? A lot more of them now. Sited helicopter once around noon, no sightings since. Guests in Metropolis for the night. Bart is an idiot, Terry's looking shaky."

No one said anything for a minute. Neither Tucker nor Glenn knew the full story of the first group's entrance to the mall, though he gathered from their evident surprise that the others had made him out to be an asshole. Finding out that he kept track of the situation—was even _on top_ of the situation—probably came as quite a shock.

"The next one just says 'TVs out.'" Tucker commented.

"Well, somebody locked me in the office that day."

"Oh, right." Tucker had the grace to appear embarrassed by forgetting this. "Why was that again?"

Here, C.J. squirmed internally. Nothing left but to tell the truth. "Because I wasn't going to let you in."

This silence was more uncomfortable than the one that had preceded it. It was a shameful silence for him as the other two found out, again, that he had the capacity to surprise them for the better or worse. Yes, he'd proven himself a somewhat capable survivor, a documenter of this new history, only now he'd just also told them that he would have been just as happy to let them die.

"I guess that makes sense," Tucker shrugged.

"What?" His ears burned. No way. No _way_ had Tucker just, more or less, forgiven him, dismissed this that quickly.

"I am more grateful now that I am alive," Glenn added, his smile beatific. "It truly was a miracle, as I have always believed."

"You've got to be shitting me." He glanced at one, then the other. There were no signs that this was the case. "You're telling me neither one of you gives a rat's ass that I would just have let you stay out there to...to rot?'

"You'll make it up to me, then we'll call it even," Tucker chuckled to himself. "It's not like I don't get it, man. I probably would have done the same."

"It's harder to care for those you do not know. It's a central challenge to my faith, constantly," Glenn lectured.

"Color me impressed," C.J. whistled to himself, fighting the urge to smile and covering his failure to do so by draining away the last of his Bud. It gave him the extra couple of seconds he needed to resettle his face back into its typical half-scowl. "You guys're dumber than I thought."

"I prefer to think of it as more merciful," Glenn admonished.

"Whatever," C.J. grunted, leaning backwards on his stool. A feeling of tipsy relief made him want to spin around on the seat like a kid, go 'wheeeee!' and fall off laughing. God, he needed to get a hold of himself.

"Forgiveness is Godliness, in my experience," Glenn pressed on, "and it is not easily done but should be."

"Who said anything about forgiving?" Tucker huffed. "I just said I'd do the same. I'm a shit anyways, so what's that say about him, eh?" He jerked a thumb in C.J.'s direction.

"Fuck you very much, Tucker."

"Language," Glenn reminded him.

"Sorry, I guess." Not really, but it mollified Glenn which might prevent further sermons. Doubtful, but worth a shot.

"Regardless of what Tucker thinks, forgiveness is still a worthy thing to seek. From your God, from man, from anyone."

"In _my_ experience, the only time it's worth forgiving someone is if you still want to screw them."

"_Amen_," Tucker applauded. "That calls for more beer!"

Glenn said nothing, excusing himself with a mere dip of his head towards C.J. and walking off. Weird, C.J. thought, but he probably should have seen it coming. Glenn always did get pissy about sex stuff. He should probably apologize, make amends, but that wasn't his style and never had been. He liked Tucker's philosophy better—forget about forgiving and just accept. Make up the difference later. It wasn't all that far removed from Glenn's way of thinking—the idea of atonement served as remonstrance for prior sins. Sooner or later, most of the people here would get it, Glenn included. C.J. swore they would.

However, it would take at least another three cans of beer to really bring out the truly righteous swearing.


End file.
